


Coming Home

by whateverrrrwhatever



Series: practice prompts [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Scenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22607332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whateverrrrwhatever/pseuds/whateverrrrwhatever
Summary: A ficlet written for the prompts "tucking your head into their neck during a hug" and "wearing clothes in their favorite color."
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: practice prompts [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626685
Comments: 8
Kudos: 226





	1. Tucking your head into their neck during a hug.

**Author's Note:**

> [dottie_wan_kenobi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi) and I have decided to work our way through a list of prompts over the next however long, which means I’ll be writing little unedited ficlets periodically and sometimes sharing them here.

Somewhere between college graduation, the academy, and landing his first case – a seemingly minor interstate drug trafficking incident gone awry that unfolded into a sprawling, arcane enterprise investigation – Stiles hasn’t made it home to Beacon Hills in three years. Trust him to arrive when everyone else is busy, though – his dad called in to cover for two sick deputies, Scott working transport for a suddenly ill beloved family mare, everyone else coincidentally busy with their own lives and scattered to the four winds besides.

Well, he’s pretty sure he knows at least one person with no social life, no job, and nothing to do but entertain Stiles for an afternoon.

“Honey, I’m home,” he yells, jogging up the stairwell to the loft. It’s barely noon on a Wednesday, but the Camaro was parked in the lot, same as ever.

He grins when he gets to the top of the stairs, barely winded (thank you, fitness requirement) and doesn’t even get a chance to knock before the door’s flung open and he’s yanked inside.

Derek’s got him up against the door, hands bracketing Stiles’s head, his face tucked against Stiles’s neck. Just like old times, only not at all.

Stiles barks out a loud startled laugh, too abrupt and absolutely humorless. “What the fuck, big guy? What are you…? Are you scenting me?”

“Shut up,” Derek grouses, and rubs the bridge of his nose against the join where Stiles’s neck meets his shoulder. He hasn’t shaved yet, Stiles notices, and immediately, futilely tries to forget.

“What? No way–” he starts and Derek shuts him up with a growl, reaching up to grasp the nape of his neck.

“I told you,” Derek says roughly. “To shut up.”

Stiles does, but it’s entirely due to the swooping in his gut, the way his mouth has gone dry, how difficult it is to catch his breath. Derek’s barely touching him – just his face pressed against Stiles’s throat, fingers digging into his neck – and he feels like he’s been struck by lightning, certain there are flames licking up his shins, or that he’s unconscious – that’s it, he thinks, a little hysterically: he’s dreaming.

Because no way is Derek breathing in against his skin, lips parted and wet against his neck, grabbing Stiles’s hip with his free hand and pulling him closer.

“I missed you,” Derek barely says, mouth moving against Stiles’ throat, sending sparks skittering across his skin, but he ignores it, for now, as best he can.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Stiles says back, just as quiet in the vast apartment, even though it’s just the two of them, almost as close as they could possibly be. “I missed you, too.”


	2. Wearing clothes in their favorite color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Took a break from WIPs to write more of this.
> 
> A continuation, for the prompt "Wearing clothes in their favorite color." This will likely be finished as it's meant to be (i.e., pornographically) in the next few months. Unbetaed. Ends in media res.

Nothing happens. Derek steps back to meet Stiles’s eyes and the moment lasts for too long, both of them standing there, doing nothing as the feeling in Derek’s chest sours from tension to discomfort. Derek lets his hands fall to his sides and swallows, shifts his gaze to the window, the unchanging facade of the building across the way.

“You’re home,” Derek says, and his voice still sounds too raspy, affected. He clears his throat. “You could have called first.”

“Ha,” Stiles forces a chuckle, awkward and uncertain. “Because you were clearly busy.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, desperately trying to remember what he should say, how he should act. He’s forgotten how to be around Stiles, in his absence. “I could be.”

And just like that, they’re back to normal. Or, close enough -- Derek feels the thread of cautious unease between them more than ever, taut and unmistakable. He ignores it: refuses to react to the tug in his chest when Stiles shows up for the pack meeting that Friday, doesn’t turn when he feels Stiles’s eyes on him instead of his book while Derek guides the betas through combat drills, averts his eyes and sets his jaw when Stiles shows up at his door the next Wednesday, soaked through to the skin.

“Hi,” he says, blinking rain from his eyelashes. Derek is already well aware of how long they are; he doesn’t need the reminder. “Sorry. The Jeep broke down, and -- I guess I should have expected it. But I didn’t have anywhere else to go. So I’m here.” Stiles shrugs.

Derek rolls his eyes and steps out of the way, holding the door and gesturing Stiles inside. “It’s fine. Come in.”

“I should have called first, I know,” Stiles laughs nervously. He runs a hand through his hair, water dripping down to splatter on the floor. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Go upstairs,” Derek says, sighing. He can see Stiles’s collarbones above the neck of his waterlogged tee-shirt. “Go take a hot shower and get changed. You’re freezing.”

Stiles looks like he’s going to argue, but keeps his mouth shut. He’s still dripping and his skin is pale and damp, clothes plastered to his body. His shoes squelch when he steps over the threshold. He braces a hand against the wall to steady himself as he bends to untie them. Derek tries not to stare at the curve of his back, the goosebumps cropping up on his arms, his neck. It’s not cold in the loft, but it’s not that warm either -- Stiles is starting to shiver as he heads to the stairs, shedding his jacket, and Derek looks away from his broad shoulders, as visible under his thin gray shirt as if he hadn’t been wearing it at all.

Derek concentrates on making coffee, turning up the heat on the thermostat dial, loading his coffee mug into the dishwasher instead of listening to the hiss of the shower, the way Stiles sighs and groans when he steps inside and closes the curtain. He doesn’t think about concentrating to hear Stiles humming to himself, the shifting spray of water as he moves, the creak of the floorboards as he steps onto the bath mat to wrap himself in one of Derek’s towels.

He looks up when Stiles heads back down the stairs, barefoot, cheeks still pink from the shower. He’s wearing a fresh pair of Derek’s soft sweatpants, the ones he wears to bed, and --

“What are you wearing?” he asks, too harshly, and Stiles looks up at him with wide eyes, pausing on the last step of the stairs. He flushes more.

“What, dude? I saw this on the bed and I thought -- I can go back and find something else,” Stiles offers, confused. He tugs the cuffs of Derek’s favorite shirt further over his hands.

It’s the red one with the stupid thumbholes, one of his favorites -- the one he’d slept in last night and left on the bed when he’d dressed that morning instead of tossing it in the hamper. Stiles has to know, he thinks, but of course he wouldn’t. He’s not a werewolf, he can’t tell with a breath how much the shirt smells like Derek, how much he smells like Derek, like the both of them, and how it’s driving Derek fucking crazy--

“No, I--” Derek shakes his head to clear it. He shouldn’t be thinking about Stiles like that. He’s known for a long time that Stiles doesn’t think of him that way, and if he hadn’t before, he’d certainly have known after the day Stiles walked back into the loft and Derek had nearly embarrassed himself, overwhelmed by the scent and warmth and life of him, after so long. “It’s -- it’s fine.”

“Ooookay,” Stiles says, raising his eyebrows. “Sure. Because fine is definitely how I would characterize your reaction in this situation.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can also find me on [tumblr](https://whateverrrrwhatever.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/whateverrrrisay).


End file.
